


Not What He Seems

by TheArchaeologist



Series: Snow and Pine [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Blood, Burns, But covering myself, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Issues, Family Relationships - Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Sibling Rivalry, Stangst, Swearing, Werewolf Stan Pines, not really graphic depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-14 11:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16911747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: A little over a week into his predicament and Stan has yet to be electrocuted, or dissected, or boiled alive in in neon-green acid over a fiery pit. Which is fine, he is by no means complaining about that, but...How exactly does one tell their captor than the monster they're keeping locked in the basement is their long lost, kicked out twin brother?





	1. Wolf

Ford is, at least, a merciful captor.

A little over a week into his predicament and Stan has yet to be electrocuted, or dissected, or boiled alive in in neon-green acid over a fiery pit. Instead, Ford visits him multiple times a day, bringing food and water and sitting down in his chair to write in his notebook. 

At some point he brought a small table down, giving him something more sturdy to lean against rather than just his lap, and Stan was sure that if he put enough effort into it he might be able to get himself into a position where he could chance a peek at what Ford was doing, but as it stands the most he has been able to muster over the last handful of days is a few paces around the enclosed space before flopping down again.

Whatever those stupid crystals are, they’re not meant for long term use.

It didn’t take long for an odd achiness to settle into his bones. Nothing too horrific at first, just an inconvenience, something that made his stretch a bit more than necessary and take a little longer to get to his feet. 

But as time dragged by, and Ford made no move to get rid of those damn things, the ache steadily increased, wiggling into the spaces between joints, making it painful to stand, and breathe, and move his tail, and yawn, and any other movement he needed to do to exist. It was as if it had settled into his very marrow, hollowing out his bones and clawing at him from the inside like little gremlins with tiny pickaxes.

Ford hadn’t noticed, for all the observing that he was doing. 

To give his brother some slack Stan never did all that much on his visits either, apart from doze and sleepily watch him out of the corner of his eye. It’s not like he has gone from running around to barely moving.

Doesn’t mean it still doesn’t suck, though.

One morning Ford pulls out a text book. “I’ve been doing research into the wolves typically found in Oregon.” He explains, waving the tattered thing for emphasis. There’s a coffee stain on the cover. “But I haven’t been able to work out what you are.”

This has been one of the funny things Stan has found about Ford, the talking. 

It was mentioned once in passing, but Ford seems to have got it in his head that Stan is a type of mutated wolf, a poor canine that must have come into contact with the weirdness of the town and grown far bigger than he should. It was said with a few more long-winded words than that, and half of it went soaring clean over his head, but that was the general gist. Either way, Ford hadn’t twigged that there was a man stuck inside his creature in the basement, and chatted away like a crazy old lady with her cats.

If it wasn’t so messed up, Stan would almost call it pleasant. It was like being a kid again, when Ford would talk Stan through his latest experiment, what he had done, what he planned to do, his theories. Swap the red notebook for the cheap old lined-paper pads Dad used to insist they use because you could get ten for a dollar fifty and the current scene would almost be the exact same.

But to continue that train of thought, what did that make Stan at this exact moment?

“I’m certain you aren’t of coyote origin…” Blissfully unaware, Ford flicks through the pages of his text book, reading each description slowly. “Your fur is far too thick. And you’re not sleek enough for a fox type.”

Stan snorts disgruntledly and closes his eyes, his head resting on his paws. 

Not everyone was designed for modelling, sue him.

Ford continues, “This only leaves the grey wolf, but I’m not convinced. Maybe you’re not local? It wouldn’t be the first time a creature was drawn to Gravity Falls, a Northwestern Wolf, perhaps? A Eurasian Wolf brought over as a pet? You do seem very tame.” 

Stan opens an eye in time to see Ford squinting at him, readjusting his glasses in a habit he had picked up in their teen years, though from exactly where Stan never knew. Ford had never done it as a kid. He probably saw some science geek do it on TV and decided to copy them, the nerd.

Ford sighs, and then shrugs, snapping the book closed. “For now, why don’t we just call you a mongrel, an interbred species between wolves and possibly some mutt?”

Why _thank you_ , Ford. Locking him up wasn’t enough, huh? You had to go _bully_ the guy when he was down, too?

With a cross growl, Stan turns his back to Ford and slouches down into the hay, grumbling deeply in his chest. Dust rises as he shifts about, tickling the tip of his nose in that annoying ‘you’re not actually going to sneeze but will feel like you will for about an hour’ way. 

Shutting his eyes tight he sinks into the bedding, absently listening to the scribbling going on behind him, his ears flicking occasionally.

He must drift off (unsurprising, considering how drained he has been feeling lately), because the next time he peels his eyelids up his rump in being poked pretty painfully by something persistent being slid through the bars. 

Instinct, if that’s what it is, takes over in seconds Stan has snapped his head up, barking a clear, loud warning as his ears go flat against his head, crackling noises breaking in the back of his throat.

Stanford startles badly, pulling the broomstick away but not fully out of the cage, the jolt making his glasses slide further down his nose. He pushes them up, his breathing fast but quickly beginning to settle again.

At first, he expects Ford to chastise him, to tut and return to his seat to scrawl in his notebook some more. Perhaps he just wanted his caged beast to do something to get a picture or drawing at a different angle, or to see how the monster reacted when provoked.

But the expression that filters across Ford’s face isn’t one of annoyance, but one of concern. His brows knit together in the same way Mom’s did when they were coming down with something, and the nails of the hand holding the broom scratch at the indents of the wood.

“You are sleeping far more than I would expect, for a creature of your calibre.” He says, his tone unchanged from the years when he puzzled over algebra homework. “Surely you don’t hibernate; you lack the mass to survive the ordeal.”

Ears lifting back up from his skull, Stan’s gaze narrows at Ford. 

For all his genius, Ford is a complete idiot at times.

The brainiac has placed himself right next to the cage, within the loop of crystal string and his arm all but through the bars as he absently fiddles with the broom. If it wasn’t the fact that his basement specimen is Stan and he had his conscious mind available to him, any other beast would have lunged without a second thought, easily ripping off that very arm, maybe even a leg while they were at it.

Shit, it was a miracle that Ford hadn’t been killed yet, if this is what he did as a hobby.

Then again…

Stan’s brain kick-starts into gear, taking in the sight of the broom, the length of it, the distance between the cage bars and the crystal fence, too far for Stan’s own legs to bat away, but long enough for, say, a cleaning appliance.

Ford is distracted, eyes glazing as he tries to crack his latest puzzle. He hums something under his breath, the way Stan’s legs alter underneath him going unnoticed as he rests his weight on one leg, eyes squinting.

All Stan needs to do is knock the crystals away, to break them or send them rolling across the floor. He just needs them far enough for the magic to waver, far enough for them to loosen their hold just a little, and he can shift back. 

But Ford would surely try and stop him; he had put the damn things up in the first place, like hell he was going to just sit back and watch as his safety barrier was destroyed. He would put the crystals back up if they fell, or play tug-of-war with the broom until he could get Stan to let go. 

He needs Ford out of the equation.

Shit, he was going to have to play dog, wasn’t he? Take the broom, mess about with it like a toy, and then hold it hostage in the middle of the cage until Ford left. 

What will happen after he shifts back he can’t say, though if instincts tell him anything is that there will be shouting involved. Lots of shouting, and possibly a few punches. You never know, it’s been a while, and Dad did sign _both_ of them up for boxing lessons, even if Stan was the only one who took to it.

It might pay to keep the broom with him.

His body waits ready to spring, watching Ford, waiting for the second his attention turns away, for the moment’s slight distraction. Shifting on his feet, Ford mutters to himself, mumbling hypotheses and predictions, saying something about bears and rabbits. His hand reaches up to scratch his ear, and with a blink he glances back across the room to his chair.

In a single heartbeat Stan is on his feet, springing hay up in a flurry around him as his eyes lock onto his target, his mouth open to-

And, in the very same heartbeat, Stan is back on the ground, dust puffing up into the air from the force.

Stars and galaxies flicker across his vision, fading in and out as the world momentarily drains of colour. In his ears his own heart is furious, angrily demanding things of him while blotting out the confused shouts of Ford that seem to set the whole world vibrating like a goddamn speaker system.

When his eyes decided to close he has no idea, but he squeezes them tightly as pain shoots up his legs to settle deep within his ribcage, tweaking the bones with each new breath. It prods at him, sharp enough to make him wince each time, poking like a curious toddler who doesn’t understand the concept of boundaries and personal space. 

As Stan stumbles to adjusts his crumpled and awkward position, the vertebrae of his spine click in his ears, the space between each dancing with a painful flare of agony that makes him yelp pathetically and curl up tighter, teeth locking tight in his jaw. If his teeth don’t crack it will be something short of a miracle.

His veins have been filled with fucking molten lava. They are burning from the inside out, melting him right there in the stupid, stupid cage. In perfect sync the muscles of his legs cramp, squeezing him as if a snake and pushing out all the air of his lungs. His mouth feels dry, impossible for he drunk barely a few hours ago, and his tongue thick and choking.

When he passes out, it is the first blessing he’s had since he’s been here.

 

Time begins to plod along again, linear as ever and just as slow, but unlike the week before this one is halting, staggered, and Stan’s rise to consciousness can come in as few as once and as many as five times a day.

Ford starts bringing down bigger portions of food the day after his collapse, but when Stan makes no move to eat it, instead letting it grow green and gross in the bowl, he switches the deer meat to chicken, and then turkey, and then fish.

Currently his bowl hosts the funeral of a whole trout, the dead eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as the mouth gapes, and if Stan hadn’t lost his appetite before then by heck he has now.

Pacing up and down along his cage as if he’s the one trapped, Ford chews at the end of a pencil, gaze flickering from the ground to Stan and back again. 

“I don’t get it.” He keeps repeating, his free hand fisting over and over again. “I’ve provided what should be a plentiful amount of food, and regularly offer water. Your bedding is clean, and the cage gives you enough space to move. Do you suffer from capture myopathy?” He pauses and stares at him, and then resumes the pacing. “No, no, the symptoms would have manifested sooner. Maybe it’s the mutation, the act of increasing in size as a result of the town’s weirdness…” His voice trails off, and in one quick movement Ford has snatched up the notebook and flicks through the pages.

Stan just continues to breathe heavily, his ribcage seeming to rattle inside him. He wants to lift his head to watch Ford, but his energy is gone, depleted, evaporated by whatever the hell the crystals do, and the most he can manage is a slow blink from between his paws.

Ford scratches at his head, the pencil held between his teeth. “Perhaps it’s not the town. Maybe you were sick before the mutation? An infection would have been quicker to show, and I’ve not seen any wounds on you. It must be internal, then. A genetic defect? A parasite?”

Uncomfortable and aching, Stan slips down to lay on his side, a quiet whimper escaping him as the pain momentarily blooms across his body. By the time its quietened Ford is back to staring at him.

He slides down into his chair, running a hand over his face. “You were fine when I first got you. Healthy, vocal, and going by the injuries on the gnomes you were able to put up a fight. So what’s made you deteriorate? It must have been something here. Something you’ve been in contact with. The food?” Ford stands again, marching forward to study his filled bowl. “But logically a wolf should have no issues with venison, and you were fine with it last week. And you’re not consuming _anything_ now, suggesting a lack of appetite rather than accidental poisoning.”

In the back of his slightly hazy head, Stan knew he should be encouraging Ford along with this. He’s on the right line, using that genius brain to his to slowly deduce what he needs to, bringing him closer to accusing the crystals, but, holy fuck, the need to sleep is _right there_. The need is nagging him, beckoning, like a dealer on the corner of the street. Every time he looked away his gaze was naturally called back.

His head nods, and with a delayed blink Stan opens his eyes again, having to take ten seconds to locate Ford through the fuzzy shapes and morphing colours.

“When I met the gnomes, they had one of these on you…” Squatting down, Ford pokes at the crystal fence. “They said it was used to keep animals asleep or contained. It made sense for me to buy some. I wonder…” 

Everything is beginning to saturate again, but lifting a paw to rub at his eyes would only seize his body and lock his limbs up, which, strangely enough, wasn’t something he was all that keen on doing. He tries closing them for a moment, just a moment, honest to whoever bothers to listen, and rests his head down on the floor. 

Come on, clear up, he needs to pay attention to Six-

Fire. 

His side is literally on fucking fire.

_What the hell?_

With a shriek so loud that if the cage bars don’t vibrate then he’ll be surprised, Stan is wide awake on his feet in a matter of milliseconds, his fur on end and an uncontrollable high-pitched groan rattling his throat. 

His bones scream with the sudden strain, rioting against his body as something heavy falls off his upper shoulder and onto the ground, the smell of his own burning flesh tingling his nose and making him gag. Fur and skin crackles from the heat.

“Oh- Damn it! I didn’t mean-”

Tripping over his own unsteady feet, Stan staggers back from the crystal lying innocently in the hay, his back hitting the bars with a clang. He’s still growling, he notices belatedly, and his jaw hangs open as if ready to snap whatever comes near him in two. 

His mouth is fuzzy and dry from lack of water, a need on his own part from being unable to bring himself to stand for the bowl, and a squeezing sensation encloses around his chest, his breathing far too fast as his joints give up on him, sending him back to the floor in a painful, jolting mess.

The agony of the crystals is nothing compared to the magma on his shoulder, oozing through his pelt and sinking so deep into his skin that if they cut him open Stan is sure they would find the very same mark all the way through.

“The crystals, of course, they must…”

Words are mixing together, evolving and stretching to form a new, undecipherable language. His brain is spinning in his skull, knocking the backs of his eyes to send them spinning as well.

Something is being broken, far away. It’s making his ears twitch. 

No, not broken, smashed.

It’s important. Stan’s supposed to be listening for this. He’s meant to care about Ford, and what he’s doing. He’s supposed to be trying to communicate with him, to be getting a message across.

But his energy is gone, swallowed whole, live and wriggling, by the crystal. 

The world has turned dead black, but whether it’s because he’s lost his vision or because he’s no longer awake he has absolutely no idea. What he does know is that pain is pulsing in every sinew, playing him like a harp, plucking mournful tunes and he tries to lift his head, tries to-

The weight lifts and, as if it was his very first, Stan _breathes._

He coughs on it, choking on the sudden lungful he pushes into his body, but that’s nothing as the pain immediately dies into obscurity, the pulsing of his shoulder slowing to a dull ache as the world is snapped back into ever sharp focus. Stan physically recoils from it, jumping at such an impact, a confused and distressed whine filling his chest as someone hits the breaks for his brain.

Stan barely notices the shift, barely registers the fact that his paws are stretching into fingers, his pelt into a mullet, his tail into his spine. His entire thoughts are clouded by the lack of pain, the lack of constant droning at his skull, the calming of his bones. 

He’s free, he’s _free._

“What… _Stanley?”_

Stan is able to make exactly three seconds of eye contact with his twin brother before he promptly faints face-first into the hay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally mirrors the branding scene from the show and tries to play it off as if it was intentional...


	2. Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, your brother has kept you in a cage for weeks and has just revealed that you are actually a werewolf. Now what?

When Stan wakes, he’s still in the cage.

He almost laughs but settles for an odd sobbing chuckle sound in his throat instead. His entire body stings, tingling with itches and bouts of pins and needles as if he had just spent three hours rolling around in nettles, making his blood feel like ants and his bones hollowed out trunks. When he lifts a hand up to rub at his eyes, it shakes, shivering in a manner too much like arthritis. It feels odd as he digs his fingers into his eyeballs, rubbing away the haziness blotting them. 

The grey ceiling of the cage comes into focus, and Stan finds himself spread-eagled on his back, thankfully fully clothed, with bits of hay tangled into his hair.

That was one thing he never did work out, where the hell his clothes went when he shifted. But hey, he knows a good deal when he sees one, and it saves him from running around butt-naked every time he changes form.

Pulsing in perfect rhythm with his heart Stan’s shoulder beats painfully, the skin feeling cracked, split, and stretched. Cautiously he goes to prod it, carefully running his grubby nails over the singed material of his jacket and shirt. 

“You’ll make it bleed.”

Startling enough to pull his shoulder muscles, Stan hisses a thousand muttered curses as he pulls himself up into sitting position, holding onto his head as the world momentarily tips on axis.

“Sixer?”

“I’m curious, are you _actually_ Stanley Pines, or just an imitation, perhaps a result of spending intimate company with me?”

Intimate company…Yeah, this was why Ford got picked on so much at school. He never did get his brain around double meanings and innuendos.

Ford has sat himself down in his chair, hunched over so his elbows rest on his knees, and his chin on his hands. The way the basement light gleams makes it impossible for Stan to see Ford’s eyes through his reflecting glasses but going by that tone he is less than pleased.

Stan’s voice feels as gross as him when he speaks. “What are you on about? It’s me, you idiot.”

“Prove it.”

Prove it, he says. Stan’s headache is far too nauseating for mind games.

“Uh, your first kiss was with a girl in elementary, Chloe? I think?” His attempt to get to his feet is rather rapidly abandoned as his legs turn to jelly, and Stan slumps back down in the hay, massaging his forehead. “Your first date went tits-up because you spent the entire movie explaining the improbability of nerd stuff about the aliens and monsters.”

Kinda ironic, seeing their current predicament. 

“Multiple people know about those incidents.” Ford waves off, “Tell me something only shared between me and Stanley.”

He could really do with a shot of something right now, a shot of _multiple_ somethings. 

“Between us, between us…” Also, his car. Where the hell’s his car? He should have locked the stupid thing, it’ll be long gone by now. “When you were nine you accidentally knocked over Gran’s urn and spent the whole morning crying about it. When Mom and Dad got home I took the blame and was grounded for months.”

The response it met is a pause, and Stan takes the moment to push the heel of his palm into his eyelids, rubbing slow circles. Thick black dots dance over his eyeballs, merging with flashes of red and stripes of orange.

“Stanley?” Disbelief fills Ford’s voice as he sits up straight in his chair, mouth falling open as his brows furrow together, hands gripping at his clothes. “You’re…Stanley?”

“Yep. Isn’t this one hell of a coincidence?” Now he’s paying attention to his body, Stan’s entire spine is as stiff as a goddamn lamppost, and audibly cracks when he goes to stretch it out. The movement makes the burn shriek, and in turn Stan flinch. “Why the shit are you buying beasts from gnomes? I thought you’d be off science-ing somewhere.”

Standing, Ford inches towards the cage and Stan can practically hear the cogs whirring away inside that genius brain. 

“Never mind the gnomes,” Ford dismisses, tone going slightly too high for anything comfortable, “What- Why are you-”

“Take your time.”

“Don’t _patronise_ me!” The shout echoes around the basement, bouncing off the enclosed walls painfully. Fuck Stan’s head hurts. “Two hours ago, I had a large wolf in this cage, why of all things has it turned into _you?_ What have you gotten yourself into, Stanley? What mess are you in this time?”

The pain in his skull flares, threatening to bring bile with it. Stan has to gulp several times before he can open his mouth without puking. “Look, Sixer-”

Ford cuts him off harshly, “Don’t ‘Sixer’ me! I want an explanation!”

“And I want something to eat!” His second attempt to his feet is far more successful, but he still reaches out to lean against the bars for support. “You know as well as anyone that I’ve not eaten or drunk in ages, so excuse me for wanting to get my head sorted out before we start all…” He gestures pathetically between them, “This.”

The outburst is enough to short-circuit his brain for a moment, Stan panting tiredly as he briefly goes diving through a black tunnel. His hand twists to grab onto one of the cage bars as his knees dip.

Noticeably put off by the comeback, Ford sniffs at him, crossing his arms and turning his head away, staring pointedly at a spot a small way away. “Fine, I’ve got food and drink upstairs. But you’re staying in there.”

Stan swallows down a growl. “You’re going to keep me-”

“Until I know what’s going on, yes. I am. I think I’m entitled to that” The air in which he says it makes it sound like the most logical thing in the world. Crossing his arms in a way that is _too much_ like Mom, Ford narrows his gaze. “Bottom line is that I don’t trust you, Stanley. The moment I let you out you could-”

“Big words coming from someone who kept me stuck as a wolf for weeks.” Stan bites back, low and dark, “You’re hardly innocent here.”

The guilt that briefly flashes over Ford’s face is immediately smothered by a stronger, redder emotion. “I didn’t know they had that effect-”

“And _I_ couldn’t shift back because of them!” The headache continues to dance around Stan’s brain, and he leans heavier against the bars. “You can’t blame me; there was nothing I could do!”

“This…This doesn’t change the fact that I can’t trust you.” Spinning in a huff on his heel, Ford marches towards the door. “I’ll get you something from the kitchen, and then we’re going to talk.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

The door slams shut with such an almighty bang that it rattles the doorframe and causes the door to bounce right back open. As Ford’s heavy footsteps go marching up the stairs Stan slides down onto the floor, his back against the bars, head swimming.

Typical Sixer, typical _arrogant_ Sixer with his stupid coat and stupidly formal voice and his logical ideas. Typical Sixer with his reason and his genius. Stupid, _stupid_ Sixer.

Resting his head on his knees, his eyes closed, Stan pokes at the burn again.

It’s large, not enough to completely cover his shoulder, but enough that if he wore a vest top it would be visible under the straps. Without a mirror he can’t see exactly how messed up it is, but from what his fingers tell him any bleeding has crusted over into unsightly scars and scabs, and that it’s not as deep as it feels. Still hurts, though, and as he pulls his hand away it comes back marred with discoloured ooze which he promptly wipes off on his already stained jeans.

The basement is far colder without his thick pelt, and for the first time he notes the lack of heating appliances in the room. Jeez, and Ford only wore a flimsy coat down here? 

Zipping up his jacket to the top, Stan pulls his sleeves down over his hands, hunching down into a position he knows far too well from when things got desperate. Turns out, he wasn’t above flat out begging. All that’s missing is the empty coffee cup fished out of the trash sitting empty on the sidewalk in front of him.

Ford’s footsteps shift about on the floor above him, moving back and forth as the sound of a knife hitting a plate clatters loudly. Although Stan’s hearing is sharp, it’s not quite enough to work out the quiet words Ford is muttering to himself, though he has his doubts that it’s anything pleasant. It’s hardly the first time someone in his family had cursed his name.

A heavy door is opened and shut, and shoes return to the stairs.

“I hope you still like ham.” Ford announces when he enters through the doorway, holding a plate in one hand. The other holds a bottle of water and under his arm is a green tin box. “Because that’s what you’re getting.”

Peering up, Stan blinks slowly. “Anything is fine.”

Striding forward, Ford kneels beside the cage next to him, passing through the small plate and bottle. 

Stan goes for the water first, uncapping the lid and taking the biggest gulp he can muster without choking on the damn thing. It slides down his throat, and the furriness of his tongue dissolves into something fresher, more normal. 

“Manners, Stanley.”

Something riles within him, but at that moment the tiredness and the headache mute any bite he would have mustered otherwise.

Swallowing, Stan lowers the bottle, eyeing Ford over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

He drinks about half of the water before putting it down, picking up the sandwich from the plate. It’s as basic as you can get them, white bread, a smear of butter, and cheap dollar store ham. But beggars can’t be choosers, something he knows for fact.

Ford is fiddling with the box, faffing about with whatever is inside, and Stan flat out ignores him as he takes a hulking great bite into the food, his stomach growling greedily for it before he has the chance to properly chew. 

Something pops open, and there is the sound of liquid sloshing about inside a bottle. The sharp smell accompanies it and is almost enough to make him sneeze.

“This might sting.”

“Hm? Wh- Ow!”

“I said it might sting!”

Hand hovering over his newly prodded burn Stan gapes at his brother. “Yeah, but one second before you do it hardly counts as a fair warning!”

“Do you _want_ it cleaned?”

“Yes!”

Ford fists his hand. “Then hold still and eat your sandwich!”

“You’re not Mom!” Stan yells indignantly, the headache and the hunger swirling uncomfortably in his body.

_“Stanley!”_

“Alright, alright, _fine_ , but be careful.” Huffing, he turns and takes another bite of sandwich.

“Are you suggesting I’m not?”

He chokes on the mouthful. “Damn it, Poindexter!”

“Just shut up and eat!”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

The cloth is pressed into the burn again, and Stan wiggles but holds his tongue still, focusing in on the plastic taste of the ham and the way the bread sticks to the roof of his mouth instead. 

The sharp smell finally defines itself in the back of his mind as alcohol, the type used in medicine, and it wafts through the air as Ford wipes over the area, clearing off the blood. As Stan finishes the last of the sandwich Ford takes out a packet of bandages, discarding the cloth to one side.

“Shirt off, please.”

Stan shifts about on his backside. “A large band aid will do, I can-”

“Do you have magical healing abilities?” The way it is said is tired, slightly sarcastic, and for a moment Stan wants to stick his chin up and state _yes_.

“No…”

“Then, shirt off. Or you let it get infected, if that’s what you’re after.”

Undoing the zip to his jacket, Stan pulls it off, tucking his left arm against him as he bundles it onto his lap. “Why would I want that?”

Ford sighs. “I don’t know, Stanley. Why were you a wolf?”

He gets in a tangle getting the faded shirt off without jarring the burn, and patient fingers reach out to help him yank it over his head. “Warning, haven’t washed that in a while.”

“Has it ever been washed?”

Stan crosses his arms, his left pressed into his stomach. “Maybe…Three years ago? Three and a half?”

“Ugh,” Without turning to look Stan knows Ford is wrinkling his nose. “I have a washer here; you can borrow that and some detergent. _Lots_ of detergent. Lift your arm up please.” 

Kneeling, Ford slowly starts to wrap the wound, Stan holding up his right arm so it can loop easily under his armpit. If Ford notices that he hasn’t washed in forever, he doesn’t comment.

Weren’t like there were many public showers just lying around.

Ford also doesn’t comment on the scars, which Stan knows he can’t have missed. He hasn’t seen his back for a while, but the stab wound from Harry is probably still there, and the cigarette burn on the back of his neck from the drunk bastards who thought it would be funny to wake the homeless man with a lit end to his skin. The scrapes from the barbed wire might still be about, though he imagines they’re nothing more than faint white lines now. He has a bullet wound somewhere too, but that was years ago, and he can’t for the life of him where it is.

Maybe it’s tact, maybe it’s disgust, but Stan’s not in the mood for relaying his past eight-years to Ford and Ford’s no prying, so he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“You’re not answering me.” Adjusting the way the bandage lies over the burn, Ford sounds bitter, testy. “You can’t get away from this, Stanley. I’m going to find out one way or another.”

Stan shrugs, wincing as the bandages tighten around the wound as he does so. “Sometimes I’m a wolf, sometimes I’m not. The last eight years ain’t been all that great.”

“They’ve hardly been _great_ for me either!” Ford snaps, the anger surfacing to turn his voice loud and cause Stan to startle. “You cost me-” A harsh, sucked in breath, and Ford goes still in his work. A beat passes, and Ford lets it out slowly, before continuing in his best even voice. “So what happened to allow you to turn into a wolf?”

Nice to see _that_ little argument still lingers between them. 

In the third or fourth year after being kicked out, Stan had begun to wonder all the ‘what ifs’. What if he went back home? What if his brother was there? What if Ford believed him, if he tried to explain what happened? What if he apologised, and Ford forgave him? What if they talked to Dad? Would he be allowed back? Could he come _home?_

Good thing he never did muster the courage to try.

Ford finishes with the bandage, sitting back on his heels. Stan adjusts himself, his right-side tilting towards Ford as he drags his shirt into his hands, messing with the material on his lap along with the jacket.

“Look, you’re not going to get much outta me-”

Ford’s eyes flash dangerously. “Stan-”

“No, wait, I’m not done.” Holding up a hand, Ford deflates a little, but watches Stan with scepticism. “You’re not going to get much outta me, because I don’t _know_ much. I’ve only ever met one other person like me, and they were _not_ in the mood to say hello. Everything I know are theories and guesses and shit all else.”

“What’s up with your arm, Stanley?”

He blanks. “Eh?”

Ford raises an eyebrow, his lips pursed together thin. “I’m a scientist; I’m literally _paid_ to be observant. Show me your arm.”

“No.”

“You’re not a child, Stanley.”

“Can if I wanna be.”

“As you a proving right now.” Ford holds out a hand impatiently. “Show me your arm. Did the crystal get it?”

“No-”

“Then it’s something else you don’t want me to see. It’s not a botched tattoo, is it?”

Stan snorts, “Sure, why not-” He cuts off with a yelp as Ford lunges forward, hand reaching through the bars to snatch up his wrist, holding up the arm like a war trophy as the shirt and jacket slip off. He struggles. “Hey, wait a second!”

“Oh my word Stan…” Ford’s grip is vice-like on his wrist. His eyes have blown wide, shocked, pitying, as they run up and down the torn tissue and deep indents where muscle has been scraped clean off. He whispers, in a manner half thoughtful and half terrified, “So this is what turned you, then?”

It would almost be a perfect bite mark. The crescent moons of the upper and lower jaws are dotted with the both round and flat nature of teeth, spanning the entire width of his arm, on the space just below his elbow. It’s large, big enough to be noticeable from the other side of the street, an undisputed indication of the size of the owner of those teeth.

But it’s not the perfect bite mark. It’s not, because Stan had fought for his fucking life. He had kicked, and strained, and twisted around in a complete frenzy of movement as the giant creature cornered him in the backstreet alleyway and snapped, latching onto his arm with a strength Stan had no hope of matching. His skin had torn, shredded, peeled back like the outer shell of an orange, and as they played tug-of-war with his own flesh, it had gained a very decent sized mouthful, taking most of his arm with it and warping the limb forever.

“You’re a werewolf, Stanley.” Ford says, hushed and unable to look away from his deformed reminder.

“Yeah, I guessed that.”

“You are a werewolf; you were turned by a werewolf.”

Stan blinks, rotating his wrist in Ford’s grip. “Yep, we just established that.”

“You can turn in and out of a werewolf form-”

“Ford, arm, please?” The please comes about a bit too desperate, a bit too needy, but it’s enough to snap Ford out of whatever trance he’s locked himself into. Letting go, he stares at Stan with an intent gaze. He tries to meet Ford’s eyes, but it fails after a few seconds.

Frowning, Ford chews at his own lip for a moment, before asking, “Why did you come to Gravity Falls?”

“Um,” Quickly pulling his shirt over his head, gritting his teeth as the movement strains the burn, Stan slips his jacket back on. “I kinda had to get out of Wyoming for a while and figured it a good idea to stick a state between me and…So Oregon it was!” He shrugs and grins, but they can both see how fake it is.

Ford pushes, “Right, but why _this_ town?”

“To be honest, that was more of an accident.” Stan tilts his head, reaching out for the bottle of water again. “I was driving, and the blizzard set in, so I just pulled over in the woods.”

“In the woods?”

“Yup.”

Rubbing his chin, Ford looks off into the distance, and something of a half-smile flutters across his face. “Fascinating… I bet it was the Natural Law of Weirdness Magnetism that drew you to this site!”

Stan gulps down a mouthful of water, which has significantly cooled from its time sat in the basement, making his teeth sing and promptly reminding him of his pounding headache. “Hardly, it was just where I ended up. Will you let me out now?”

Ford doesn’t hear him, instead talking nerd things to himself, his gaze falling on his red notebook sat on the chair. “You can clearly change outside of the full moon, so it that just an urban myth? There must be some truth in the folklore, as you were turned by a bite. Is there a way to reverse it? Do werewolves live in packs? Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “The crystals!”

Propping himself up against the bars, Stan closes his eyes as Ford babbles, willing the pain in his skull to die away. His face twists at the mention of _those things_. “Yeah, what’s up with those? They didn’t burn me the first time.”

Apparently, Ford’s back to listening to him. “They didn’t?”

“Nah. The gnomes stuck one on me when they nabbed me. Hey, do you know what a ‘Shmebulock’ is?”

Stan hears Ford shifting about, followed by the sound of a pen clicking rhythmically. “Ah, so it’s not direct contact, rather…Oh, I see…”

“Mind sharing with the class?”

“The crystals were enchanted with silver.” 

Sitting up, Stan turns his head to frown at Ford. “Silver?”

“Yes, I tested one when I first got them.” Standing, Ford walks across the room to retrieve his book, flicking through it as he returns and sits crossed-legged on the floor. “Silver, fairy dust, and several mushrooms.”

“Delightful.”

Ford hums absently in response. Now that he has a chance to get a closer look, Stan realises the notebook is more of a hard-backed journal, and for some curious reason Ford’s stuck a gold six-fingered hand on the front along with a one in his cursive scrawl.

Scratching at his head, Ford resumes clicking the pen. “But you say that they didn’t burn you when you first made contact.”

“I did say that.”

“Which means that it’s not _direct_ contact with silver that harms you, but _exposure_ to silver.” He looks back up at Stanley, a pleased ‘I’ve cracked the puzzle’ expression on his face, the same one he used to beam when one of his experiments worked as a kid, or when he found the right parts for the Stan O’ War. 

He swallows down whatever it is that rises in his throat. “Right.”

“The reason it didn’t burn the first time is because it is exactly that, the first time you had been in contact with it.” Ford ploughs on, excitedly. “Here, you’ve been in the silver’s presence for weeks. It weakened you, made you sick and susceptible. When I threw one at you, it was enough to cause you serious harm. This is probably why you’ve never had any issues with it until now, because you weren’t with it long enough for any ill effects to appear.” 

His hands tug and pull at the zip of his jacket, sliding it up and down. “So what does that mean? Next time I meet some silver I’m toast?”

“I…Hm…” Pursing his lips, Ford examines his book, and then glances up at Stan. “Maybe?”

He laughs without humour. “Great.”

The pen clicking strikes up its previous tune. “But it may not. The only way to see is to wait for you to recover and then touch some to see if it burns you.”

“Funny thing? I ain’t in a hurry to go prodding that stuff again.”

Ford sighs in a slightly dejected way. “No, I imagine you aren’t.”

A silence falls between them, not as hostile as before, but a hint of uncomfortableness continues to run through. Fiddling with the cap of the bottle, Stan avoids Ford’s gaze, his nail picking at the plastic.

“So,” He says, forced cheeriness shoved into his throat, “What next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What next indeed...


End file.
